Choke
by ImaginingAutumn
Summary: There's more to Altair than Malik ever bothered to realize.
1. Sink Into The Storm Again

Chapter One. _Sink into the storm again._

The streets of Jerusalem were crowded, people milling around one another in some complicated pattern that the slightest misstep could ruin. Malik was used the streets, having traveled them often in search of supplies and equipment needed to manage the bureau and play host to the assassin's going in and out. Most rafiq's would just send a novice out to get what they required, but Malik liked to go out. It gave him something to do rather than just dig through old tomes and direct people around the city. Today, however, Malik just wanted to get his shopping done as quickly and painlessly as possible. The reason being the _idiot_ tagging alongside him.

Altaïr walked silently beside Malik, weaving through the crowds like an expert gently pushing and nudging those with breakable items out of the way so that no attention was brought to them. Malik glared at him. "If you're going to come with me, make yourself useful and carry this bag," snapped the one-armed man, stepping around a woman with a large jug on her head.

Rolling his eyes, Altaïr took the bag from Malik, ignoring the way that the other man muttered about not being a cripple and needing help from ignorant novices. Turning down an alley way, Malik stopped at a merchant stall. The man inside was stout and meaty with a large beard and two eyes that glinted like diamonds, eager at the prospect of more money making.

"Ah, if it isn't my favorite customer!" he said with an easy going tone of voice. "What can I do for you today? I have everything you ever need!"

"Yes, yes, just the usual stuff and a little extra…" Malik talked to the man with a weary tone, used to the ways of merchants and their pokes and hints that you should buy other things as well. Altaïr tuned the conversation out, eyes wandering along the street looking at the people disinterestedly. He had forgotten the way that streets smelled, all musky with body odor and other things. Animals of all shapes and sizes could be heard in the background, hiding beyond Altaïr's view, but not his perception. He had forgotten the way that streets sounded, all footsteps and the murmurs of conversation meant for other ears, babies crying in the distance as beggars pleaded for coin. He did not like the reminders.

"…Novice? _Novice?_ Altaïr!"

"What?" Altaïr looked over at Malik, expression blank to mask the thoughts rolling around in his head.

"Time to _go_," Malik hissed, glaring at Altaïr murderously, as if his spacing off for a moment had caused him great public embarrassment (the reality being just an amused merchant). Nodding, the assassin quickly gathered the newly purchased items and placed them in the bag with the other things Malik had already gotten before following him down the street once more.

Then something caught Altaïr's eye.

"Malik," he murmured, close to the rafiq's ear. "Please do not snap at me when I ask this; May I please borrow a few coins?"

The rafiq looked scandalized. "Why do you always ask _me_ for money? You're an assassin, pickpocket!" Members of the Brotherhood, of course, did not get paid. Most money in an assassin's possession was earned not by wage, but by stealing, looting when they could. Malik _knew_ Altaïr was guilty of it, they all were, but for some reason the assassin never had a single copper coin on him. As soon as he had money, it was gone.

"Please, Malik."

Malik stopped walking, a dark glare in his gaze, turning to berate Altaïr when he suddenly stopped. Altaïr's eyes were unreadable, but very dark, very pained. There was something in those deep black depths that was totally unreal to Malik. Something he didn't know or couldn't know about Altaïr and he knew everything, knowing the man since their first day of assassin training. Before Malik had even realized it, he was giving Altaïr a few coins, not a lot but enough for a decent meal, and the assassin walked across the street and knelt down to something there.

Malik's eyes narrowed, trying to see what it was that Altaïr was doing (plus, he still had that bag full of supplies) but the man's body was blocking the way. Malik walked towards Altaïr and faltered when he saw what exactly the assassin was doing.

"Thank you so much, sir," said a weak but very grateful voice. "You have no idea what this means to me."

"It is no trouble," he said softly before standing up. The figure below him was a young woman, tired and beaten by life. She was dirty and most likely homeless, given the way she dressed. An infant was cradled in her arms, big black eyes staring up at Altaïr with childish curiosity. Malik would have walked by them and not even seen them huddled there in the shadows of the merchant stalls. He wondered how Altaïr had.

When Altaïr extracted himself, giving what may have been a smile to the woman (though it might have just been a trick of the light- Malik could count on one hand how many times he had seen Altaïr smile), they walked back to the bureau in silence. Malik was contemplative; Altaïr was, as always, unreadable.

"That was a good thing you did," said Malik quietly, none of the usual sarcasm of snark attached, looking at Altaïr out of the corner of his eyes. Altaïr didn't respond. Malik tried again. "Why did you need money from me?" The question was honestly curious, again without any of its usual bite.

There was the smallest shift in Altaïr's stance, slightly more protective, noted Malik. "I had none," replied Altaïr, tense and uncomfortable. "I…I had already the last of my change to a boy before we started to shop."

Malik looked surprised and this his brow furrowed but before he could open his mouth to question further, Altaïr had already begun to speak again. "He was an orphan. He was starving." The muscles in Altaïr's were visibly tight, like a bow strung far too tight and about to snap. "I've heard there's a new gang in the city and they're recruiting disturbingly _young_."

Altaïr's eyes finally looked into Malik's and there was something decidedly _raw_ in them, something Malik couldn't understand. "I can't do anything for him except hope that with each day I give some kid some of my spare coin, they're staying out of that for one more day. Its only one day, but its one day out of that _hellish_ system."

With that, Altaïr handed Malik the bag and walked swiftly past the rafiq, to climb up on to the roof to enter the bureau's rooftop entrance. Malik just stared, even once Altaïr was out of sight. It suddenly occurred to him that there was so much about Altaïr that he didn't know, even after knowing him since their days as novices years ago. The rafiq shook his head and walked swiftly down an alley to the small side entrance of the bureau (the easiest way for him to get in and out of the building now that he could no longer climb with his former dexterity).

'_Its probably nothing,'_ thought Malik to himself as he shut the door behind him with his hip before walking down the hall towards the main room. _'Just Altaïr the stupid novice with a hero complex.'_

Something inside Malik told him that that wasn't the case.

The rain was a blessing for Jerusalem, but a curse for Altaïr. He despised the rain. Water in general was hated by the man, but rain's only positive quality versus still water was that he couldn't drown in it (or not easily, at the very least). High up above the city, Altaïr was perched on the wooden outcropping of a tall tower, giving him a wide view of the streets below. Thunder rumbled up ahead and Altaïr glanced up before sighing and getting ready to jump. There was no point to staying out any longer. The rain had pushed the citizens of Jerusalem indoors and with them went his informants.

If any had happened to look up and out of their windows at that precise moment in time, they would have seen a man clad in white leap from his place high above and down into a large bale of hay, graceful and precise in his movements in a way that not even a dancer could mimic. But of course, no one did. Altaïr silently rose from the hay to return to the bureau.

There were a lot of things that no one knew about him. Where he came from, why he became an assassin, who his parents were; some even _he_ did not know the answer to. Altaïr had blocked out many parts of his past, forcibly _forgot_ many things that he'd seen, but Jerusalem brought them all hurtling back. It was painful. Some things were just meant to be forgotten and those were an example of such.

Pausing in the mouth of an alleyway, Altaïr looked inside of it with unseeing eyes, dark and blank like twin moons; unreadable to the end.

_A small form lay huddled in the alley surrounded by empty boxes and trash, shivering with the cold as rain pounded on him from above. He was painfully thin, practically gaunt with two large golden eyes that stared at nothing and everything at the same time. His breathing was labored, caused by sickness in his bones that would never go away as long as he was on the streets. But a life in a home was far off for the boy. He honestly couldn't even imagine one; after all, he'd never lived in one._

_His back pulsed in pain, blood seeping through the thin material of his shirt. The rain made it spread against the already worn cloth, most likely permanently ruining the garment. (It hadn't looked all that good to begin with, either.) He'd messed up, he had. Didn't bring in enough money. It made Boss angry. He had set high demands, (_obnoxiously_ high demands) for the boy and he hadn't been able to scrape by. He was made an example of, for the other boys. A cruel whipping and a beating was what he got for his troubles._

_The boy wished he'd never listened to that charismatic sales pitch and joined that god forsaken gang._

_Someone went stalking by and the boy huddled even farther down, back pressed against the brick like a wounded animal, as if he was expecting the person to lash out and kick him at any moment. One of the older boys had found him, hadn't he? He was done for. He'd be kicked and beaten into a bloody pulp and returned to the boss as the prime example as to why you never ran away from the gang. The gang was your _family_ now. And people who left the family were never seen again._

_But the blow never came. The boy was pleasantly surprised as the feet stayed in his vision and slowly, very, _very_ slowly, raised his eyes raised to look at who had paused in front of him. A frighteningly tall man was standing there, his white hood causing dark shadows to cover his face. The boy cowered fearfully, a wretched picture under the strong tall man._

"_What is your name, boy?" said stranger in a husky, low tone._

_The boy was silent, too stricken by terror to find it in him to reply._

_The white hooded man looked at him a moment longer before slowly easing down into a crouch in front of him, giving the boy a chance to see the face underneath the hood. It was a middle-aged man, handsome he supposed, and probably could have been a father to someone his age (what that was, exactly, was unknown but he assumed 8 or 9). But there was something in the man's eyes that both scared and exhilarated the boy. This was a man who was _different_. This man had seen hardship and conquered it. He didn't think he'd ever see a man like this again in his entire life._

_The boy wished he could be this man._

_The man repeated himself, breaking the boy out of his awestruck fantasies. "What is your name?"_

"_Altaïr," he stammered out, voice weak and soft. "A-Altaïr ibn La-Ahad."_

_The man raised an eyebrow before his expression became more concerned than confused. "Son of none? You don't know where your parents are?"_

"…_mother's dead," Altaïr said quietly, his large gold eyes deepening in grief. "I don't know who my father is."_

_The rain had decreased to a drizzle by now, not nearly as punishing as the downpour from before, but the temperature had sunk as nightfall fell upon the two. The chill sunk right into Altaïr's bones and shivers racked his thin frame no matter how hard he tried to hide them from the imposing man in front of him._

_The man stared a moment longer before reaching forward (the boy flinching back from the hands but as he was already plastered against the wall as it was, there was no where else to go) and gently grasped the boy's chin to make him sit up straight. "I have two sons around your age," he said with an emotion in his voice that Altaïr couldn't understand due to age. "If they had to live like this…" The words trailed off and his hand fell away and Altaïr went back to the wall, pressing himself _impossibly_ smaller against it. The action earned a small cringe from the boy (who's back still ached fiercely) and the small action did not go unnoticed by the man._

"_What's wrong, Altaïr?" said the man seriously, dark brown eyes glinting in the shadows of his hood._

_The boy shook his head fiercely and didn't comment._

_There was only a split second between Altaïr's response and the man's next move. Before he even realized it, Altaïr was lying on the ground, chest down, dangerously close to a mouthful of mud and other unmentionables found in alleyways. A strong, calloused hand was on his neck, pinning him where he laid and no matter how he struggled, he couldn't rise. It wasn't even hard for the man to keep him down; after all, the boy was small, emaciated, ill, and (now that he'd gotten confirmation) injured._

_A moment later, the boy was hoisted onto his feet (swaying a bit as he stood; blood loss mixed with hunger and sickness was not good for ones balance) and the man was crouched at eye level with Altaïr, looking at him with a determined expression._

"_You're coming with me, little one," said the man. Altaïr glanced up._

"_T-To where?"_

"_First, to get you taken care of," he said, standing up at full height and grasping the boy's hand. "Then, to Masyaf."_

_Altaïr blinked owlishly at him, confused. "Why?"_

"_Because you're going to be an assassin."_

Another crack of thunder boomed overhead and the master assassin blinked in surprise, forcibly removed from the vision of his past. He sped down the street towards the bureau, feeling panicked inside. He did not want to revisit those memories. Not for anything.

Altaïr despised the rain.

The first thing Malik noticed when Altaïr dropped into the bureau was that the master assassin looked like a drowned cat. Second was the fact that Altaïr looked panicked. Very shaken up. But, of course, only he noticed it. After all, he was a master of deciphering exactly how Altaïr felt when others only saw apathy on his face.

"Safety and peace, brother," said Altaïr quietly in greeting, sitting on a stool in front of Malik's desk.

Malik frowned. "Go dry off," he snapped. "I don't want you getting water on these maps. I've been working on them for days."

Altaïr's gaze lifted and Malik was, for the second time in his entire life, saw that deep unending pain that reminded him he had no idea who Altaïr was. He looked back, something akin to sympathy on his face before placing his quill to the side and standing up. "Never mind. You wouldn't be able to find your way out of a paper bag, let alone find a towel in here."

Altaïr remained murmured a small 'thank you' before lapsing back into silence.

When Malik returned (towel and a new shirt in hand- because if the bastard caught a cold, he sure as hell wasn't taking care of him), Altaïr had removed his hood and stripped off each of his weapons that had previously been placed on his body and placed them on a nearby table, out of Malik's way.

"Here," said the man caustically as he entered the room, tossing the towel on the table as well as a new shirt. Altaïr picked it up and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Malik flushed slightly (though it might have just been the way the candle was flickering-). "If you get sick, I'm not taking care of you," he growled. "So change your shirt."

The master assassin was silent for a moment before nodding his head in thanks to Malik. "Thank you, brother."

"Yeah, yeah," grumbled the rafiq as he sat on the stool behind the counter. "Just do it already you're taking-" he looked up, and his eyes widened. "-forever."

Altaïr's back was littered with scars, lines running up and down across the tanned skin that should have been without a mark. Malik was stunned. Assassins were very good about watching their backs. Sure, most had a few scars (arrows from that one archer they missed when they were taking people down, cuts from that one guard who joined the fray when they saw their comrades go fall, etc) but _this_ many was unheard of. Watching your back was imperative to survival as you ran across the rooftops of cities and through the streets. It was your largest weak point, after all. Malik felt a little sick inside as he looked at them, and he had seen many sick sights.

Malik suddenly realized that Altaïr never took off his shirt around anyone, even when they were novices, training in the hottest parts of summer with not a break in sight. Most put it down as conviction (a sort of dedication to what he was doing that no one else quite understood), Malik included, but the mystery of Altaïr Ibn La-Ahad was growing every moment and he wasn't honestly sure how he felt about it.

He suddenly realized he wanted to know more.

Ducking his head before Altaïr looked over and saw him staring, Malik's head was moving a mile a minute. _'Those don't look like normal cuts,'_ thought the rafiq to himself, his gaze going from shocked to calculated, as if he was trying to decipher the very _reason_ for those scars from just that one look. _'But I can't place exactly what they look like…'_

It was decided then. Malik was going to study Altaïr's every movement until he knew _exactly_ what Altaïr ibn La-Ahad was hiding. And he wasn't going to rest until he found out.

**AN:**

Don't you hate it when you realize once you've already uploaded a chapter, you've forgotten to put an author's note? Eish, this doesn't say great things about me, does it~? Well, my failures aside- Welcome to the first chapter of _Choke_! This is the first part of a three part fanfiction that I have already completely typed up. I'll be uploaded the next chapter in either the next few days, or next Tuesday depending on how editing goes (while this chapter was quick to edit, the next one was not- Oy ve). I hope you all enjoy this, my lovelies~

Also, just so we're all clear (and I am only going to write this once because it _should_ be obvious)- I do not own Assassin's Creed or its characters. All rights go towards the always lovely Ubisoft and their wonderful team.

And, on a side note- The title of this fic and the names of the chapters all come from the song _Choke_ by Hybrid. I suggest you all go to youtube and listen because its a great song.

Until next time-

Imaginingautumn.


	2. Cold and Disconnected

Chapter Two. _Cold and disconnected._

After the rain had stopped and Altaïr's clothes had dried out, the assassin immediately changed, put all of his equipment back on, and headed out to see if he could get anything done in the last snippets of daylight that were left. As he carried out his investigation, Malik instantly started out on his own inquiry; poring through record books to see if text could give him any clues as to what was behind the golden eyed stare of the Son of None. So far his search had been unsuccessful.

Altaïr had no surname, making searching family tree's a difficult and downright _tedious_ task. He pored over the documents until his eyes were itchy and bloodshot, tired from lack of light (a candle could only do so much) and from lack of sleep. Pulling another paper out of the stack, Malik's sharp brown eyes scanned over it quickly before his face flushed in frustration and he slammed it back on top of the pile. That was futile. Altaïr was, apparently, _impossible_ to find. Was he disowned from his family? Impossible. Malik didn't think that was possible for Assassin families; once they were there, they were there for _life_.

Turning over ideas of what he would do next, a sudden thought struck Malik. What if he wasn't part of one of the many clans the assassin's were made of? It was doubtful. Beyond doubtful, even. It happened, oh- once in a generation? If that? Malik didn't think he'd be able to name someone he knew who didn't come from one of the many assassin families. Their ways were kept private; there were hardly volunteers pounding on their doors for a reason after all.

But it was not impossible. Malik leaned against a wall, eyes distant in thought. Altaïr was, after all, known as "Son of None". It wasn't _impossible_ for him to come from somewhere else…just a bit unlikely.

Malik brushed the thoughts out of his head. It was silly. Maybe Altaïr was disowned- and, subsequently, scratched from the family tree. It would just take more digging is all.

Altaïr had managed, somehow miraculously, to get a little more digging done in his investigation. The moment the rain stopped, the market in the middle district opened again and people hurried to get their shopping done before dark. It subsequently happened that a certain map containing all the locations of the rooftop archers was being sent from one person to the next at the exact same time.

The master assassin had to admit; it was nice to be lucky sometimes.

Silently stalking the man carrying the letter (obviously notified that someone may be watching him by the way that he looked from side to side, uneasy), Altaïr hunched over his clasped hands, pretending to be a scholar to avoid attention being drawn to him. He sped up a fraction and coolly reached into the man's pocket to gently extract the map before the man even realized it was go-

"Thief!" the man shrieked, and Altaïr audibly cursed. He had the letter, but they had seen him. Fuck. The screaming man instantly notified the guards and Altaïr sped off, pushing people out of his way as he ran towards the nearest climbable building. He'd never been good at pick pocketing.

Vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, Altaïr ducked and jumped inside one of the many rooftop gardens that littered Jerusalem to wait for the guards to give up. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back against the wood and let himself relax for a moment. The earthy scents of plant life filled his nose and his eyes slipped shut as the dimly lit interior of the garden soothed him…

_He didn't mess up. He'd done his job perfectly. Quietly assassinate a local priest who was using the money from the coffers to help fund the Templar's. It wasn't hard. The man wasn't even a large player in the grand scheme of things so he wouldn't be missed, not really. But Altaïr was still panicked; unhappy and frightened. He felt like the child he had been so long ago. He felt like he hadn't aged at all._

_Altaïr had quietly entered the backdoor of the church and was pleased to find it empty. The priest should be the only one here. Quietly slipping down the hallway, Altaïr made his way towards the confessional. The confessional was built in a way so that only the person in confession was completely enclosed. The priest, on the other hand, sat in a chair facing the grating in between him and whoever he as talking to. There were two walls on either side of him, leaving his back completely exposed. An easy kill._

"_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession. Ten, at least, but I have not been counting…"_

_Altaïr attempted to block out the noise of the man talking to the priest, instead preferring to creep up behind the priest to quietly snuff out his life. His hidden blade extended smoothly, without any kind of hindrance, and behind the Altaïr's hood, two golden eyes glittered dangerously._

_His right hand struck out, covering the mouth of the priest before his left slammed into the man's neck, hidden blade striking through the flesh and bone like butter. The priest was dead before he could make a sound._

"…_for you see, well…I started a gang and put myself on top. They were all so young…urchins and orphans with no homes to return to…they were perfect for this, you know? I could get them to do whatever I wished. I _controlled_ them. I loved it. So much, Father. I was powerful and they were weak, sick, and hungry. I gave them food, I told them we were _family_. Family was a powerful word. Almost none of these children had families."_

_Altaïr's heart was pounding so hard in his chest, he thought that everyone for a mile could hear it. The man in the confessional continued, unaware to the terror sparked in Altaïr (still standing over the body of the priest he had just killed)._

"_I remember there was this boy…he couldn't have been more than 9, but who can tell with these kinds of people? These kids hadn't had a real meal in their entire lives. The boy could have been 11 and I never would have known. But I do remember this boy. He was a terrible pickpocket, but he was in the gang. I would make him my _example. _I'd give him the hardest quota, knowing he wouldn't be able to meet it, and then use him as an example as to why everyone else had to do well. It was sick. It was wrong. But…fear controls people. Even the young. No one ever stood up for the boy."_

_There was a creaking noise, the man adjusting himself on the old wooden chair within the confessional. "Gold eyes. I remember those eyes. I remember how terrified they were." A deep sigh. "He ran away. The boys I sent out to find him never did. I moved on to another boy to be my example. He couldn't handle it. Died."_

_Altaïr couldn't bear listening to anymore. He turned on his heel and ran, ignoring the way that everything around him was closing in. Exiting the door of the church in a flurry of white cloth, he sped up the side of a building and leaped across rooftops as if the devil himself was after him. But it wasn't _the_ devil; it was _his_ devils. His demons, nipping at his heels and digging their claws into his back. _

_The bureau was nearby, but he ran right past it, instead leaping into a rooftop garden. This was a safe place. A place no one could find him._

_A few hours later, Kadar found him in there, curled tightly into a ball, as if protecting himself from kicks and fists that didn't exist._

Choking, Altaïr flew out of the memory with wide, unseeing eyes. He panted, confused, and peeked out of the garden. No one was around. He exited the garden warily and looked up. The sun was gone. Time to get back to the bureau.

Collecting himself, Altaïr put on a mask of indifference before running towards the edge of the rooftop and leaping, landing on another before repeating the performance with the grace of a cat. He needed to complete this mission soon and get out of Jerusalem. Too many memories laid here. Too many that should have been forgotten long ago.

After being fed up with his search for the night, Malik entered the small sitting area, expecting to see Altaïr there (either sleeping or just sitting, he really had no idea). Malik's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What the hell? Where was Altaïr? His eyes lifted to look out at the small opening of the bureau roof. Was he still out there? It was completely dark outside; Jerusalem would be very slow and very little would be happenin-

All of a sudden, Altaïr dropped into the Bureau, scaring the shit out of Malik though he pretended not to be surprised at all.

Malik scowled. "And where have you been?" he snapped.

Altaïr did not reply, nor did he meet Malik's questioning gaze.

"Oh, what's this? Without anything to say? I didn't think I'd see the day, Altaïr."

"I was out," he said, voice carefully emotionless (his eyes still hid behind the shadows of his cowl). "My investigation is not complete, as you already know."

Malik's scowl impossibly deepened. "And people were out and about at this time of night? I am no fool, La-Ahad, don't treat me like one."

"…I was…" He lapsed into silence before shifting uncomfortably on one foot. "A guard noticed me pick pocketing." He reached into his pocket to present the folded up map. "It contains all the positions of the rooftop guards." Altaïr's head finally lifted and there was this wry, pitiful smile on his features. "I've always been a terrible pickpocket."

The rafiq was not amused. "Always? Allah preserve us, you've only been pick pocketing since you were ten, and even then our teachers would always praise you." There was a slightly bitter look on Malik's face. "Stop pretending you're not what you really are. Humility is the worse kind of pride."

Altaïr's face darkened and he turned and climbed up the building back out onto the roof.

Malik looked affronted. "Where the hell are _you_ going!"

"Out," came the blunt answer from the rooftop, before Malik could hear the pounding of feet on the roof as Altaïr left.

Standing there alone once again, Malik stared at the space Altaïr had once occupied. He still wasn't any closer to finding out who Altaïr really was.

Falling always felt like flying to Altaïr. That was why he loved it so much. He was a bird, able to _soar_ through the air and get away from the mess of reality and just exist as one with the wind. Of course, falling only feels like flying until you hit the ground, but…

Those few moments of unending bliss were all Altaïr could ever want in life.

The hay was warm and cozy and Altaïr just sighed contentedly as he laid in it. Even before his time as an assassin, he'd spent a lot of time in hay stacks. They were a good place to hide, a good place to _sleep_ when there was no space for him at the hideout. Altaïr knew he'd have to return to the bureau tonight, but for now this was a good place to be.

A moment later, his eyes slipped shut and Altaïr had fallen into the arms of his dreams.

Okay, so maybe he was concerned. Maybe just a little. After an hour with no sight of Altaïr, Malik felt a nervous twitch. Two, he'd started to tap his fingers. At three, his leg shook uncontrollably at a very fast rhythm. He never made it to four. Exiting the bureau quickly (waking up a novice in the back to get him to watch the counter while he went out) he made his way out, not knowing exactly where to look but having a few ideas.

First he checked the alleyways, seeing if Altaïr was sitting with the homeless and sharing some food, but he found nothing but trash and beggars in there. Next he checked the rooftops, making his way clumsily up a ladder onto a high building to see if he could find that white flash leaping from building to building. But there was no luck there either. Glancing down, Malik saw a hay basket. Could he still do it-? Could he still make a leap of faith?

The temptation was too great to deny.

Malik soared.

But the moment he landed in the hay, he knew something was wrong. What the hell-? Was there someone else in here!

Digging around with his hand to push hay out of the way, Malik's chocolate brown eyes met Altaïr's golden ones. It was obvious Altaïr had been asleep, eyes still working on completely focusing the world around them. His hood was down, revealing his dark brown hair for everyone to see. Malik suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd seen Altaïr so open and unprotected. The last time had probably been when they were novices…him, Altaïr, and Kadar…

The thought pained him.

Malik was the first to find his voice. "What- What the hell are you doing in here?"

Altaïr chuckled in the cover of the hay. "I could ask you the same question."

The rafiq flushed slightly. "T-That's not important!" Altaïr raised an eyebrow. Malik glared. "Well its not. I just…I was…" He started and stopped a few more times before letting out a tired sight. "I was looking for you," he said quietly. "I got up on a rooftop and I just…I just couldn't _resist_…"

The assassin understood without Malik even finishing his sentence. Once you flew, you always wanted to again. Even if you wings were clipped, like Malik's, the never ending _want_ to soar again never left you. Altaïr just nodded and lowered his eyes. He was responsible. Guilt pounded on his body like the tide on the beach, never ending and far from pleasant.

Malik saw. Anger flared up in him. "Oh for the love of-" He climbed out of the hay with a look of fury on his face. Altaïr emerged next, knowing hiding was not an option anymore. No use but to follow. "What the hell is your problem?" hissed Malik, rage radiating off of him. "You're like some kind of _mystery_ man!"

Altaïr looked at him, confused. Malik continued, waving around wildly with his good arm. "I honestly don't even know what to make of you! I can't be angry at you anymore! Because, god damn it, you're not the man I used to know!" He was seething. "Why can't you be a bastard! Why can't I be _mad_ at you!" Something flickered in his gaze, something more cold and calculating. "And why, no matter how hard I look, can I not find you in any of the record books! 'Son of None', tell me, where did you come from!"

The moment he stopped yelling, Malik realized he had made a mistake. Altaïr looked at him with those deep, pained, gold eyes and Malik felt guilt deep in his bones. He always said too much, always took one step _too far_ and insulted or injured someone. Kadar was a much better speaker than he. Not too much, never too little. Malik filled the role of the opinionated soul with ease and entered conversation only when someone needed to be taught a lesson.

Altaïr didn't know what to say. He was never one for words, leaving those to the better educated than he, like Malik and Kadar who had been reading and writing since they were small children. He filled the role of the silent much more easily. He wished he had that same gift for words as Malik and Kadar did. He wished he could say the things that needed to be said.

"…I'm from Jerusalem," he said finally, quietly. "I lived here for a long time."

Malik was startled out of his guilt. "What? You're not from one of the families in the brotherhood?" His brows were furrowed with confusion.

Altaïr shook his head and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. There was no running from Malik. After all, Altaïr would stop and run back. He always did. Words were failing him. He didn't think he'd be able to talk about it. Better to show him.

"Come with me," he said finally and turned to walk down the street. Malik sputtered for a moment, a little ticked by the way that Altaïr thought he could just say 'follow' and Malik would (like a _dog_) but he found his feet following Altaïr anyway. They stuck to the ground, not flying through the air (for Malik's sake or for Altaïr's was unknown) and the shadows were dark and oppressive. Jerusalem was such a different city at night. Altaïr seemed to be on edge, though he was easily the most dangerous thing out here.

They had been walking for a while now, deep into the poor district. Malik could honestly say he'd only been here a few times, for mapping purposes. But Altaïr-? It was obvious he knew his way around. They went slinking through small alleys that Malik didn't even know _existed._ Eventually, they came to a halt in a tiny alley, boxes high on the sides of the buildings next to them, making the oppressive space even _smaller._ It was dirty, it smelled of horse shit and other unmentionables, and it made Malik feel sick to his stomach. The rain had made small dirty puddles appear and the mud was thick and slippery underneath his feet. Malik had an uneasy feeling about this place.

"Here," said Altaïr softly.

Malik paused and looked around before irritably looking back at Altaïr. "What about here? We're in some shitty alley in the poorest section of the city."

Altaïr ignored him and continued. "I lived here for a long time. Mother died when I was around young, maybe five -but who really knows-, and I don't know who my father is or, more than likely, _was._" He crouched low to the ground, the ends of his white assassin's robe getting dirty in the mud. "I slept here, stole here, bled here, almost died here; this spot, right here, was my home."

Despite calling it a home, there was absolutely no affection in Altaïr's eyes. It was less of a home and more of a prison, but the master assassin honestly didn't know the difference. He'd never had a _real_ home, nothing to compare to, leaving his perception dirtied and incorrect.

It had begun to drizzle again, but neither man moved from their spot.

"How…How did you make it to the Brotherhood, then?" asked Malik after a few minutes, the drizzle turning more into actual rain and plastering his hair to his forehead.

Altaïr looked up. "Your father found me."

Malik was startled, not expecting that answer in the least. "_My_ father?" The assassin nodded before looking back down at the ground. "But…my father was..." Malik grew quiet. "He was always in Jerusalem…I didn't see him very much, but there was this time…I remember overhearing a conversation one time when he was home. He and mother were fighting. He had wanted someone else to move in with us, but she was against it. Said that he didn't have the right to bring another mouth to feed into their home when he was barely there. Which is true, I guess, but…It had been you, hadn't it? You had been what father found."

The assassin shrugged, but didn't make eye contact this time. "Maybe. I was passed on to a family with no children- requested that I pretended they were my parents." He snorted. "Impossible."

But Malik wasn't listening to Altaïr anymore. _'Maybe he left something in a report,'_ mused Malik internally, still eager to know what made Altaïr, well….Altaïr. _'Yes, that sounds like a good place to look…'_

Altaïr saw. "Don't look into me."

"What?"

Altaïr was suddenly in front of Malik, eyes hard and cold, looking the assassin he was trained to be. His lips were drawn in a thin line, scar stretched over the hard scowl. "You heard me. I have told you so much more than I have ever told anyone else. _Do not look into me_."

With that he turned and walked away, leaving Malik alone in the alley. The distinct taste of dissatisfaction filled his mouth, and Malik wasn't sure why. He had the answer he was looking for, didn't he? Or at least the beginning of an answer, right?

So why did he feel so bad about _knowing?_

Malik didn't think the rain would be able to wash away the familiar feeling of guilt that sat on his shoulders.

**AN:**

Surprise, lovelies! Chapter two, here before your very eyes! I decided I was far too eager to let it wait for a few days, let alone a _week_. So here it is, chapter two! When I first wrote this chapter, it came out _so easily_. Both the first and the second did, really, but I _really_ liked this chapter. I had a friend look over it (the lovely Hansolo18 if anyone's interested (look at me, dropping names like a fool)) and she _looooved_ it (thank god) so I think its good enough to be given out to all of you~

Er, I really have nothing else to say so uh- Leave me a review and let me know what I can fix, m'kay? Have a great day, dears~ Hopefully I'll get the next chapter out tomorrow or the next day (the next one's the iffy one for me- it needs some editing).

Ciao!


	3. We've Opened Every Door

Chapter Three. _We've opened every door._

Something inside Malik felt dirty. Blemished. _Disgusting_. It reared its ugly head up and roared in his ears, clawing at his shoulders and sinking its wretched teeth in his neck. He couldn't hear. He couldn't feel. He couldn't breathe. Malik knew this feeling well; guilt. But this guilt was different than what he usually felt (the guilt of losing his brother, not protecting him, not keeping him _safe_-) this was the guilt of hurting someone rather than the guilt of failing to protect someone. It was a much grittier, vengeful kind of guilt, always telling him how much of a bastard he was.

Altaïr hadn't spoken to Malik when he returned to the bureau. He was curled up in the pillows of the main room, seemingly asleep, but Malik knew better. Altaïr was very aware of what went on in the bureau, even if he wasn't seemingly conscious.

Already feeling guilty, Malik walked back towards his room (if it could be called that- more like a closet with a cot taking up a large majority of the already limited space) but paused as he reached the door leading to the file room. He couldn't resist reaching over to the door and just gently pushing it open. Shelves full of books and maps and all kinds of things greeted him and the smell of ancient paper and ink was soothing on his tortured soul. Despite his misgivings about what he was thinking of doing, Malik walked in there calmly, closing the door behind him with only the light of the flickering candle he held in his hand to show him around the room.

He was going to look up those reports. He deserved to know. He deserved to know what made the man who was responsible for his brother's death. He deserved to know what hurt the man who was responsible for the loss of his arm. He deserved to know what caused the man who was responsible for so much hurt to be so hurt inside. He _deserved_ to know.

Malik's father had been a well known assassin in the Jerusalem bureau, responsible for the deaths of many high ranking corrupt politicians in his time. He was revered as a master in the art of death, but Malik himself knew little about the man behind the cowl. Assassin parents were hardly kin and less than kind. But reports were, in a way, _diaries_ for many assassins. They could pour their hearts out on the pages and then just tuck them away in the large archives of a bureau where they would be, more than likely, never seen again.

Malik hoped his father was the same way.

Removing a large bundle of scrolls from the shelves, Malik eyed the tag attached before placing it back up and trying the next one. It took a few tries, many misses with zero hits, before he finally came across his father's name. _Aha._

He put the scrolls on the table before bringing a chair up and sitting on it. Pulling the string loose, the scrolls rolled onto the table before coming to a halt right before they went off the edge. Malik peered at the dates with a critical, practiced, eye before selecting one he thought would work. It was dated 18 years ago and the ink had faded from a strong black to an earthy brown, the paper was dry and crinkly under his fingers. His father's handwriting was neat, but had an artistic flow to it, as if the letters just rolled off the tip of his quill. Malik gently unrolled the scroll and began to read.

_The mission was a success, as always. I hope Malik and Kadar are proud of me, but who knows- I am hardly ever in Masyaf to see them. Their mother is displeased by the way that Al Mualim keeps sending me to all corners of the Holy Land for my missions, but who am I to say that I should be kept close to home? I hope they realize I love them. I hope they realize I do this for them. _

_Malik is much like his mother; I hope her bitterness will not rub off on him (as the young are, without a doubt, impressionable). Kadar, on the other hand, seems to take after me; he will do well as an assassin, but I fear for his lack of vision. He seems to follow just about _anyone_ regardless of whether or not he knows them. He trusts too much, but there is time to fix that problem. I hope it is addressed before it is too late._

_On my way back to the bureau (in the rain, no less- rain? In the Holy Land? I know, its crazy, but it has to happen _sometime_) I found something. Less than a some_thing_ and more of a some_one_. He goes by the name Altaïr and has eyes so gold I can see why his mother named him after eagles. They're almost frightening. Those eyes miss nothing, absolutely _nothing_. I swear, he'll have them closed and he'll still see what's happening around him._

_I normally bypass urchins (a terrible thing to say, but true nonetheless- after all, I cannot help them all), but for some reason, the boy made me pause. Maybe it was because he was so close in age to Malik and Kadar. Maybe it's because I'm going soft. But I stopped for him and he was, well…_

_Pathetic beyond all reason._

_He really is just about Malik's age…8 or 9, I think. Seeing the boy makes me miss Malik even more. Oh, I hope he knows I love him-_

_But, back to this boy. He says his name is Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. His mother is dead and his father is gone, but to where the boy does not know. He's small, sick, and wounded; literally _whipped_ though he will not say by whom or for what reason. I fear he has caught the most recent plague (with a life on the streets it is not unlikely (plus sitting out in the rain with such a condition would only worsen it)) but the doctor who examined him assured me it was no such thing. Though without proper care of those back wounds, well- they could get infected. I shall have to watch to make sure he does not irritate them._

_Although he will not say where his injuries came from, I suspect foul play; a gang, most likely. A few informants have mentioned vaguely, in passing, of increased gang activity in the slums, but thought nothing of it because it because their actions are mostly conducted by young boys who can do little by grouping together. Although they may be informants, some agents in the bureau are not exactly _intelligent_. Gangs, no matter the age, sex or race of the members, are dangerous things to keep around and even more dangerous to _join_. Whoever is running this, whoever is calling the shots for this sick venture, they better watch their backs. People will eventually open their eyes to the problem- but they will need time. Blindness (metaphorically speaking) is not something you can fix overnight._

_In the mean time, I will keep up with Altaïr. The gang is not something I can take care of, so I will take care of him. He's quiet, very quiet; cannot read, write, or do any kind of math or understand any sciences, but he is clever. Resilient as well based on the beating he took. I've decided to take him to Masyaf with me- the boy deserves a home. My wife will not be pleased with the addition to our home, but maybe she will be- who knows, maybe Altaïr, Malik, and Kadar could be friends. _

_Altaïr ibn La-Ahad may be a son of none, but he will no longer be without a roof._

The report went on to say more of the mission details, how the assassin had attacked from above before escaping down the alleyways into the poor district, but Malik did not bother to comprehend what was written beyond the section for Altaïr.

The marks on Altaïr's back now made sense. Whip lashes. Malik had seen them on the slaves that came through Jerusalem; he felt foolish for only remembering now how the ghastly marks stretched and bled and left ugly strips of scar tissue that would never fully heal.

Malik no longer felt he deserved the information he had gathered.

Looking to his left, Malik saw two golden eyes, turned almost yellow by candlelight in the hallway (how long had that door been open? How long had Altaïr been standing there?) before they disappeared.

Of course he would know. Like his father had said before him, Malik thought Altaïr's eyes could see everything, even when closed. He was a fool for trying to escape their hawk-like sight. He felt like an idiot for thinking that reading these wretched reports would make him feel better. And above all, he felt like a complete and utter _fool_ for ever believing that he would never forgive Altaïr ibn La-Ahad.

Getting up silently, Malik blew the candle out at the table before walking out into the hallway once again. Instead of heading towards his room (or lack thereof) he headed out to the main room. Altaïr sat there, silent as the grave, elbow's resting on his knee's as he studied his clasped hands in front of him. His hood was down, all his weapons stripped away, and Malik felt that Altaïr looked complete and utterly _vulnerable_, none of the old protections up around him, exposing him for what he really was under that assassin mask; a human being.

Those piercing eyes looked up at him, but Malik was surprised to find no anger in them. There honestly wasn't much of _anything_ in that gaze. It was almost defeated. That was a troubling thought.

"Kadar knew."

Malik took a startled step back. "What?"

"He found out. I had that recalled some…unpleasant things. He found me hiding in a rooftop garden." Something deep and sad flickered in that gaze, but Altaïr didn't continue. He didn't feel he _deserved_ to continue; telling Malik how much he missed Kadar and his open ear would only provoke the man.

Malik studied him for a long time before slowly going deeper into the room and sitting across from Altaïr. "What happened?"

Altaïr shrugged, uncomfortable. "It was an easy mission. Kill a priest. I did that, but….the priest had been in confession. The man who had been in there…" Altaïr shifted his position, bringing it a fraction inwards (something Malik only noticed due to years of training). "He used to be in charge of the gang I was in," said Altaïr, his tone almost whispery soft. "He talked about me. I couldn't adapt. I ran. I hid. I couldn't come back to the bureau like that; people would talk." He scoffed and avoided looking at Malik, feeling intense shame.

"What did he say?"

"What?" Altaïr looked at him owlishly, confused.

The rafiq rolled his eyes. "What did the man in confession say about you, novice?"

The title rolled off his tongue automatically and Malik instantly regretted it, cringing inside and ready to correct it, but the phrase actually seemed to warm Altaïr slightly, as if he was pretending it was said in affection rather than in disdain. Maybe, just maybe, it was.

"He talked about how he used me as an example," responded Altaïr. "A sort of…exhibition for what happened if you didn't bring in the required amount of money. We were all pickpockets, you see," he explained quickly, hurriedly. "None of us could do much else and, well…I was a terrible pickpocket. Still am." His hand scratched his head and mussed the hair that had been flattened under his hood. Altaïr's expression was flickering rapidly between fear and apprehension. "He, uh- He said he used another boy after me. As an example." There was a long moment of silence before he continued. "He died."

"Altaïr-"

"I'm sorry."

Malik stopped. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said again, looking right at Malik before his eyes met the ground. "For Solomon's Temple. For your arm. F-For…Kadar. I never- I-I couldn't say it when it mattered most. I fear I've lost you forever from my life." He looked up at Malik, eyes desperate for an answer.

Silence greeted Altaïr and he bowed his head, his worst fears recognized.

"I cannot forgive you."

"I understand," came the quiet, overly calm reply. This was his last chance for redemption. Nine lives for his-? Worthless. Altaïr knew his worth.

"No, you don't." Altaïr's head lifted and gold met brown. "I cannot forgive you because you are not the same man who went with me to Solomon's Temple." The rafiq stood up and moved into a crouch next to Altaïr. "The wrong man is carrying the guilt. You need to forgive yourself, Altaïr. You are not the same man."

Altaïr suddenly felt like that young boy he used to be, alone in a dark alley once again with no hope in sight only to have someone drop in and save him. Emotion he'd suppressed for so long built up in Altaïr and he felt his throat closing up. His vision became blurry and he became concerned, hand touching his face and coming away wet. He sent a confused, worried look towards Malik.

The older man gently reached over and wiped underneath Altair's eyes and the touch was warm on his skin, lingering there even after Malik had pulled away. "W-What-" said Altair, deeply confused and conflicted. "W-What's happening?"

Malik's eyebrows furrowed, but he smiled wryly. "What? Never cried before?"

Altair flushed and looked away. "N-Not like this."

The rafiq laughed slightly. "I didn't know there were multiple ways to cry."

"I've never cried because I was happy."

Altaïr was never good with words. Malik didn't try and force him.

**AN:**

Well, my lovelies, that's the end of it!...Until I write a sequel, that is. Hurr hurr. But, that aside- Wow this chapter gave me a lot of trouble. Starting this baby was easy, but ending it-? That's a whole other ballpark my friend. But, that aside- I was determined to get this to you _today_ and not tomorrow so I just kept truckin' until I got an ending I liked! But, if you guys can give me any tips as to how _you_ would end it (that doesn't end in slash, because its not that kind of story honey (that's for the sequel~)), be sure to let me know! Maybe I'll make an alternate ending or something~ But, until then-

I hope you all enjoyed the story and I'll see you all next tiiiime~

-ImagineAutumn


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